


The Hunger

by Sshorty



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dandelion, Gen, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Inspired by The Witcher, Novigrad (The Witcher), Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Witchers (The Witcher), Sick Character, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Starving, The Witcher 3 Spoilers, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, The Witcher Lore, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Contracts, Witcher Whump Week (The Witcher), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witchers Need Hugs (The Witcher), Wolf School (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sshorty/pseuds/Sshorty
Summary: POST-WITCHER 3: THE WILD HUNT !!!SPOILERS!!!TRIGGER WARNING: Brief mention of sexual assault in Chapter 3The last Geralt saw of Ciri, she'd left, trying to prevent the White Frost foretold in the prophecies. She never returned, presumed dead. For a mutant who was rumoured to have been stripped of emotion, Geralt struggled for some time over the loss of the girl he saw as his own daughter. He sought vengeance, finding the last crone, the one Ciri had failed to kill, and he finished the job quickly in order to retrieve Ciri's medallion, which had one belonged to Vesemir. Geralt travelled alone from then on... Yennefer and Triss had cut ties to him, having discovered he'd been romancing them both at the same time. Lambert and Eskel had disappeared, heading off on their own paths to other continents, leaving Kaer Morhen in ruins. Witchers had become a rarity, and rumours had spread viciously, causing even more hostility towards the mutants than before.The continent has been ravaged by war, famine, disease and crime spreading across the land, but Witcher work has become harder to find. Alone, hungry, tired, Geralt finds himself need of assistance, and he has only one person left he can rely on.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware my first fanfic isn't finished, but I just can't work on one fic at once. I always have three or four ongoing, so figured I could post them too, in case you want to follow them all.

A change of wind direction, that was all it took for the scent of the mammal to drift into his nostrils. He turned his head sharply, white hair blowing in the breeze as he looked towards the gust of wind. He froze, crouching, his crossbow in one hand and his other’s fingertips resting on the dirt beneath him where tracks had faded to nothing. The scent though, it gave him a new lead. 

Slowly, he rose to his feet, not making a sound as he began to follow the scent, glad to be down-wind from the mammal, so it wouldn’t pick up on his scent. He moved carefully, his steps slow, calculated, so to avoid breaking a stick or kicking something. The only sound was his very faint breathing, slow, almost silent, his heart beating slowly, steadily in his chest. Squinting, he crouched low, moving through the undergrowth of the woods, looking into the darkness for signs of movement. He couldn’t be far away now... the scent was strong, fresh...

He stopped in his tracks at the sound of gentle tearing sounds, and chewing. Turning his head, he listened closely, then adjusted his direction by a few degrees. Finally, through the darkness, he could see his prey, a lone deer, a male... small, certainly not a trophy, but he wasn’t hunting for that reason. He moved closer, hooking a bolt onto the notch of his crossbow as he approached, keeping low amongst the bushes. He was close, but not close enough... 

Boots slowly moved through the grass as he continued to stalk the deer, pausing briefly when it lifted its head to survey its surroundings. He held his breath, waiting for the deer to continue grazing, then continued to draw closer. 

Finally , within range, he pulled the crossbow taught, slowly creeping from the bushes for a clearer shot. Lifting the weapon, he closed one eye to aim. His hands trembled, his arm swaying from fatigue and dizziness as he tried to aim, but when he finally had the deer in his sights, a loud, long growl erupted from his stomach, filling the silence. The deer lifted its head at the sound, turning to look directly his way. The mammal’s eyes were met by glowing, golden, cat-like eyes staring straight back at it, and alerted to his presence, it turned and darted off, kicking dust and gravel behind it. He fired his crossbow, the bolt slicing the air, catching the deer on the rump. The deer let out a pained cry, but didn’t stop, simply bounding off as fast as its legs could carry it. The bolt had simply caught the rump, and it hit a tree behind where the deer had stood with a dense thud. 

“Shit...” He grumbled, a gruff voice amongst the silence, then placed his crossbow back in its holder on his back. He sighed, and he headed over to the tree his bolt had landed in. Blood covered the shaft of the bolt, and he swallowed hard, the scent filling his lungs... he was so damned hungry, he was tempted to lick the blood off... shaking his head, he turned in defeat and slowly trudged back to his camp. 

The fire was still glowing when he returned, unfastening his weapons from his back. He leaned his swords against the tree, then slowly slumped down on one of the roots, leaning back against the trunk. Weary eyes closed, and he let out a breath, wrapping his arms around his middle, bending his knees up towards his chest. He felt another rumble aching within his belly, and his eyes opened again, glancing at the fire then over to Roach, who was dozing off to one side.

It had been weeks since he last ate now... he was famished... so much so that even his faithful steed was starting to look appetising, but there was no chance he would do that. He was a monster killer, not a monster... His eyes closed again, and he tugged his cloak around his shoulders, wrapping himself up to keep the chill off, and leaned his head back against the tree. 

Times were hard now... if being a  Witcher hadn’t been tough to begin with, they were even more so now...  Vesemir’s death, closely followed by  Ciri’s , had led to the Wolf School parting ways.  Eskel and Lambert had both gone their own directions, disappearing off the map...  Yennefer and  Triss , having found out about  Geralt’s unfaithfulness, had left too... war ravaged  Velen , and with  Witchers becoming nothing more than a rarity now, contracts were few and far between. Any contracts he could find were poorly paid, barely a fraction of what he used to earn, and he’d been unable to afford to stay in an inn, or even get a hot meal... he’d got by on foraging, but in the war-torn lands, clean, plentiful berries and fruits were hard to come by... even more so were animals to hunt. Even the water was, more often than not, no longer suitable for drinking... too many bodies and waste flowed into the water sources now...

As the days had passed,  Geralt had grown weaker.  Witchers could go for some time without food, but the White Wolf was reaching the end of his tolerance now. He could feel his energy waning... he needed to rest more often, had to sleep for longer, and so travelling took considerably longer than it used to... he was on his way to  Novigrad , his last hope and finding some familiar faces... that’s if Dandelion and Zoltan were still around; the last he’d seen of Zoltan, the dwarf had been making plans to move. With the mages and sorceresses far from  Novigrad , the residents had turned against non-humans, and so Zoltan knew he had to move on. So really... Dandelion was  Geralt’s only hope now. 

Geralt was easily another three days ride from  Novigrad , at best. Taking into account resting, probably double that. For now, though, he knew he needed sleep. Another hunt had failed, so conserving his energy was his only real option. He got to his feet, placed more wood on his fire, then with a small spark from  Igni , he ignited the fire once more. He pulled his bed roll closer to the flames, the chill getting to him more now that he was low on energy, and he curled up on his side. An arm wrapped around his middle, his stomach grumbling as he tried to get to sleep, and his eyes closed. It didn’t take long for sleep to take him. 

* * *

A warmth was pressed to his back, a warmth that hadn’t been there before. The fire had died, the sun had begun to rise, lighting the sky in reds, oranges, pinks and purples, but the rising sun still didn’t explain the warm pressure on his back. He inhaled, smelling the familiar and comforting scent of Roach’s hair, and his head turned, eyes cracking open slightly to see a soft, velvety muzzle hovering inches over his head. A sweet, warm blast of breath hit his face, and he smiled, lifting a weak hand to gently stroke down Roach’s face. His horse must have sensed his weakness, and had laid down behind him, pressing her warm side to his back with her legs tucked under her body. 

“You’re a clever girl...”  Geralt said softly as his calloused hands slowly stroked down her cheek. Her soft lips brushed over his hair, messing it up as she nibbled at the white locks, and he couldn’t help but chuckle, gently pushing her muzzle away with his palm. “Okay, I take that back.” 

Slowly, he pushed himself to sit up, leaning back against Roach’s side. She pressed herself against him, allowing him to rest his weight against her, and his hand gently combed through her mane, a yawn on his lips. 

“No breakfast, I’m afraid... you better be ready for another day of travel.” The  Witcher grumbled. Talking to Roach had always been a habit of his, but now, alone more than ever before, he did it almost all the time... his horse had become his only companion. Without her, he’d certainly have gone mad by now. 

Roach gently huffed back, then tugged at the grass she laid in, munching quietly whilst  Geralt mustered the motivation to pack his things. It took some effort, but he rolled his bed back up, gathered his belongings, then strapped his weapons onto his back once more. They felt heavier than they used to, but  Geralt pushed it to the back of his mind. 

“C’mon Roach, get up.” He said to his mare, softly tapping her shoulder with his hand. The mare complied, getting to her feet. She bobbed her head a couple of times, before shaking her neck and head, freeing herself from dust and debris that had found itself caught in her mane. Her head turned to look back at  Geralt , who hauled the saddle up onto her back. He lined it up, reaching under her belly to fasten the girth, checked it was the correct tightness, then he lifted the saddle bags up. He fastened those on, moving to her head to slip her bridle on. She always had been easy to tack up... she was a calm, obedient mare, intelligent, though she did have a feisty streak, but she only seemed to use it in defence of both herself and her rider. 

Finally tacked up,  Geralt scuffed his boot across the dirt, kicking dirt over the fire until it went out, then headed back over to Roach. He placed a hand on the back of her neck, taking a fistful of her mane, and the reins. His left foot slipped into a stirrup, he took a moment to gather his strength, then with a grunt, he launched himself into the saddle, channelling all his strength into one leg. He swung his right leg over her rump, then sat into the saddle with a soft thud, right foot slotting into the stirrup as well. 

Both of his hands moved, grasping the horn of the saddle firmly, and he hunched over, pressing his eyes shut. He felt slightly breathless, his arms shaking, and his slow pulse seemed to have increased in speed slightly. Brows furrowed, and one hand lifted to his chest, feeling a flutter in the centre. His hand pressed down over his heart as he felt a couple of heavy beats that left him winded. He gasped, his heart missing a beat, but quickly returning to some normality. 

His focus was fixed entirely on his slow pulse, making sure he could feel it returning to normal, when he felt a soft nudge on his knee. His eyes opened again to see Roach had turned her head back, nuzzling his knee with concern. A soft smile smoothed out his concerned expression, and he reached out, gently patting her neck. 

“I’m alright...” He assured her. Roach let out a soft huff in reply, then waited for  Geralt’s heels to softly squeeze her sides, spurring her into a walk.  The soft plodding of the hooves on the ground was something of a reassurance to  Geralt ... it was a sound he had known his entire life, whether this horse or his previous ones.  He adored horses... in fact, despite his hard exterior, people who truly knew him knew that he was an animal lover in general. He didn’t kill unless he had to , and even then , he made sure to do so with thanks and respect, dispatching them humanely and with as little suffering as possible. 

The hours dragged,  Geralt hunched over in the saddle. His hand grasped the horn of the saddle the entire time, supporting himself. Despite the sun shining on their backs, he had only stopped to tie a cloak around his neck, pulling the hood up to hide himself from view. He passed very few people on the road ... very few that were still alive, that was. Corpses were a common sight these days, the war  with  Nilfgaard had truly shook the lands.  He had hoped that finding  Ciri would have brought an end to the war, but instead, it brought nothing but heartache and an end to life as he knew it. 

It was nearly noon when  Geralt finally saw a village on in the distance. Hopeful, he forced himself to sit up straight  in the saddle... he couldn’t let the world around him know he was weak . He removed his hood, and he kicked Roach into a trot, making his way into the village. Around him, the  place hustled with activity. People worked, cleaning their homes,  washing clothes, plucking poultry. As he slowly rode into the village, slowing Roach down to a steady walk , faces turned, staring at him. Glaring eyes burnt into his skin, and  whispering sounded around him as he headed down the main  street. He was used to it, people spitting at him, swearing, telling him he wasn’t welcome. The names they called him no longer bothered him ... usually, he could find himself welcomed in the inn though, albeit by a reluctant innkeeper who needed all the coin they could get. 

He rode to the notice board, stopping beside it. He glanced over the papers pinned to it, but saw no contracts . He read each notice closely, just in case anything hinted towards work suitable for a  Witcher , but there was nothing... with a sigh, he decided to head to the inn, to see if perhaps the innkeeper knew of any work nearby. 

He pulled Roach to a halt by the inn, glancing up to see disgusted faces glaring at him from all directions. He looked towards the inn, the smell of freshly cooked, hot food floating on the breeze. His mouth watered at the smell, his stomach was twisting with hunger as a growl shook through his abdomen. He winced slightly, placing his hand over his stomach for a moment until the cramping passed... maybe he could afford to eat here. 

He climbed out of the saddle,  landing silently, and he  led Roach up to a water trough. He gently stroked a hand down her neck, over her shoulder, before turning and slowly heading inside. The door  creaked as he opened it, and every face in the inn turned to face him ... nothing out of the ordinary... he let the door close behind him, ignoring the whispers as he walked towards the bar, pausing as someone spat at his boots. He shot them a glance, eyes burning like fire, then turned, heading to the bar. 

“ Witcher .” The man behind the bar spoke up, a certain venom in his voice as he spoke.  Geralt dipped his head in a nod,  the scent of the food cooking behind the bar made his stomach growl again, urging him on, pleading with him to ignore the people muttering amongst themselves behind his back. 

“ What’s cooking? Smells good.”  Geralt asked, signalling to the cast iron pot over the fire. The innkeeper glanced behind him, then back to the  Witcher . 

“Meat and root vegetable stew.” The innkeeper replied, clearly reluctant to serve the mutant. In fact, he was planning on charging the mutant triple just to try and get him to leave. 

“How much for a serving?”  Geralt asked, pulling out his coin pouch. He tipped the contents into his hand, but as the innkeeper replied, he glanced at his coin, and he let out a disgruntled sigh when he realised , he didn’t even have enough for a  single pint of beer. “You know what, never mind...” 

Geralt glanced apologetically at the innkeeper, then turned to head back out the door, but as he turned around , he was met with the faces of three men, dirty, covered in tattoos, skin scarred from years of hard labour. They were blocking his path, arms folded across their chests 

“Think a mutant freak like you can just wander into our village uninvited?” One man scoffed , stepping closer to  Geralt .

“Your kind aren’t welcome here.” Another snarled. The other didn’t say anything, simple pulled a wooden  club from its holster. 

“Gentlemen,  I didn’t come here looking for a fight... so do yourselves a favour, and walk away...”  Geralt warned, his eyes narrowed, on edge now. He didn’t want a fight... he didn’t want to  cause a fuss... not to mention, he wasn’t entirely sure his body could cope with it right now. His stomach growled at him in protest, as if it were joining in with the argument... all he had wanted was a hot  meal. 

“Oh yeah , think we believe that?  Witchers bring naught but trouble , probably here to make some coin and plough our women whilst you’re  at it.” One man snapped in response, spitting on  Geralt’s boots. 

“Hmm.” The  Witcher grumbled, knowing it was best to just avoid rising to the situation. He  shook his head, turning to apologise to the innkeeper for causing hassle. The innkeeper didn’t look amused either, clearly siding with the men from his village.

“Relax, just let me leave...” He said quietly,  l ifting his hand and clouding one man’s mind with a simple  use of the  Axii sign. The man he had stunned nodded and stepped aside, making room for the  Witcher to exit. 

“Bastard's cast a spell on him!” A voice cried out.  Geralt knew it was best to just get out and leave, so he turned, taking a step to move past the men, when a sudden searing pain  hit the side of his head, accompanied the sound of glass smashing and shards clattering to the floor at his feet. He flinched, groaning, a hand reaching up to grasp the side of his head where blood had started to appear.  He looked down at his hand,  deep red blood glistening on his calloused hand, and slowly he looked up again to see a shattered glass bottle clutched in one of the men’s hands.  If that’s how they wanted it to be, so be it... 

Geralt’s fist clenched, and with a sudden flash of blue light,  he lifted a hand and knocked the three men back with a blast of  Aard . They staggered back , the stunned man falling onto his back on the floor, but the other two remained upright. The broken glass bottle smashed to the floor , giving  Geralt chance to land a well - aimed punch into the  man's jaw. A crack sounded as his jaw  dislocated , and he cried out in agony, grasping his face and staggering even further back. 

“You asked for it...”  Geralt warned,  flinching when he felt a kick to his hip. He staggered to one side, spinning and instantly swinging for the third man, who was still fighting fit.  The man dodged, lifting his hands up to cover his face. He blocked  Geralt's punches with difficulty,  gradually moving backward until  Geralt lifted a leg, kicking a boot hard into his opponent’s stomach. Winded, the man fell back, landing against a table. It sent tankards of drink and food flying,  the people at the table crying  out  and jumping out of the way. 

Geralt lifted his arm, stepping back to wipe blood from his eye,  stinging and hindering his vision. As he did so, the man recovered his composure, and he swung a hard punch at  Geralt . It landed square against the  Witcher’s eye socket.  Geralt grunted, stumbling back, but he caught himself on a table nearby ,  breathless,  pressing a hand to his eye. He could feel the  bruising already beginning to form, knowing he was going to have one hell of a shiner. 

Another swing came  Geralt’s way, thinking he wasn’t paying attention, but  Witcher reflexes  were ever on his side. A gloved hand snapped up, grasping the man’s fist before it could reach the side of his head. His grip was tight, the muscles in his arm  tensing as he blocked the blow. Twisting his wrist, he  pulled the man’s arm into a painful position, then pushed, shoving the man back again. This gave him enough time to swing another punch, aiming directly for the man’s  head. His gloved fist hit the man’s temple with force, instantly knocking him unconscious. 

One man down, he turned to see the man with the dislocated jaw still crying out in pain. He didn’t want to do more harm than necessary, so he straightened up and turned to leave, when  a  loud crack filled the room, a force hitting  Geralt across the back of the head. The man he had previously stunned had rescued the wooden club, and he had waited for  Geralt to let his guard down. The  Witcher didn’t even have chance to let out a cry of pain as the world around him turned black. His body slumped to the floor with a loud thud, and the customers surrounding the scene began to cheer, crying out in triumph, whilst  Geralt quickly  fell  unconscious. 

“Let’s get that filth out of here.” The innkeeper spoke, walking over. He reached into  Geralt ’ s pockets, taking his coin pouch, then grasped the large, white-haired man by the wrist. Someone else stepped over and grabbed  Geralt by the other wrist,  and together they hauled the unconscious  Witcher out of the inn. They tossed the dead weight out onto the muddy,  waste covered road,  slamming and locking the door behind them. 


	2. Chapter 2

A hot breath pulled  Geralt to, blowing at his hair. Soft nibbling on his cheek caused him to groan, and one eye cracked open. His head pounded, the impact from the back giving him a horrendous headache. He was laying, face down, in the main road, coated in mud and who knows what else... From the lighting, he could already tell he had been unconscious for some time... the sun was beginning to set. The smell of urine filled his nostrils, his nose creasing when he realised his back was wet, which could only mean someone had urinated on him whilst he was unconscious. 

He pressed his eye closed again, and slowly he forced himself to roll onto his side. He tried to open his eyes, but one eye was so swollen it wouldn’t open. Instead, he just peered up with the only eye that had opened, seeing a shadow looming over him. His head spun, and he pressed his eye closed again until the dizziness passed, then looked up again to see a chestnut belly over him, two strong legs planted firmly on either side of where he lay. 

Geralt lifted a trembling hand, and he gently placed it on one of those strong legs, receiving a soft nicker in response. Roach lowered her head and peered between her legs to see  Geralt was awake... the mare had stood over him from the moment she’d chased the urinating man away, and she hadn’t let anybody near since then. She’d stood over him, sheltering him, protecting him, and for that, he was thankful. He gently tapped the back of her knee, and she moved, careful of her hooves as she stepped over him, turning to face him. She nudged softly at his side back with her head as he slowly sat up, and reaching up with his hand, he grasped onto her saddle, slowly pulling himself to his feet. He was caked with mud... great, now he needed to wash too... 

Gingerly, he lifted a hand and touched his swollen eye socket with his fingertips. He felt the bruising, pain radiating from the now blackened area, and he let out a sigh. He also felt dried blood crusted into his hair.  Geralt knew people were still watching him; he could feel their glares, hear their whispers... he knew he had to move on. 

Despite the painful throbbing in his skull, and the way the world around him spun when he moved too quickly,  Geralt placed his mud-coated boot into a stirrup, and he clambered back into the saddle. He didn’t even need to nudge Roach on; she’d already begun walking before he’d even got his other foot in the stirrup. She wanted her owner out of this place, away from those who had attacked him. 

Geralt didn’t even need to direct his horse, she followed the tracks without his encouragement, though he did urge her into a slow canter once he had securely found his other stirrup. He needed to get away from that place. Every hour he’d laid in the mud was an hour that  he’d lost, an hour in which he could have made progress in his journey. Gone were the days when  Witchers were more common, when  Witchers were welcomed, even admired for the work they did to keep the people of the world safe. Now, the very few that remained were seen as the lowest race, despite their continued efforts to keep those ungrateful people safe from monsters and other threats.

Roach’s hooves tirelessly pounded the track, eventually slowing to a steady walk when they were far enough from civilisation again.  Geralt’s attempt to find some food had proven fruitless yet again, not that he was interested in eating any more now. Hours had passed, the sun had fully set, and his head still pounded, dizziness causing him to slump forward and wrap his arms around Roach’s neck to stop himself from falling out of the saddle. He felt sick, disorientated, and was wondering if perhaps he had a concussion. Eventually, the motion of Roach’s steps became too much for him, and he sat up, steering her away from the road, setting up camp for the night. 

* * *

The next morning,  Geralt woke up feeling sore, but a bit better. He could open his bruised eye now; the swelling having reduced quickly thanks to his mutations. The dizziness had gone as well, but the headache remained, and the gnawing hunger had returned. He wasn’t going to stop again though, not wanting to risk another inn... if he could just make it to the Chameleon in  Novigrad , there would be a warm bed and hot food waiting for him.

First, though, he needed to rid himself of the horrible stench of old urine, and who knows what else... thankfully, he’d set up camp not far from a stream... it was by no means as clean as a bath would be, but it was better than nothing. Rising to his feet, he gathered his belongings, packing them away on Roach’s back, then he slowly heaved himself into the saddle. He didn’t have the energy to waste, so opted to ride the short distance to the water’s edge. He made sure to check around him as they travelled, making sure nobody was around, and finally they reached the water. 

He dismounted, sliding off the saddle, and he stumbled a little as he landed. He quickly caught his balance though, steadying himself with a hand on Roach’s side. She turned her head to look at him, a gentle grunt passing her flaring nostrils, long dark eyelashes blinking as she watched him for a moment, then turned, lowering her head to graze at the fresh grass. 

Geralt glanced around, checking the area was safe, then removed his weapons. He set them down near the water’s edge, then slowly began removing his armour, piece by piece. It was all going to get washed and cleaned, removing any leftover dirt or residue... he’d picked a quiet, secluded alcove in the rocky river bank, somewhere tucked away so there would be no worry of someone seeing or stealing his things. It was by a fairly deep pool, where the water must have swirled against harder rock for centuries, forming a hollowed-out basin, deep enough to swim in. There was even a ledge, perfect to sit on.

Armour off, his under-armour was removed next, followed by his undergarments. Finally stripped of his clothing,  Geralt bundled it all up in his arms and moved to the water. He set it down, and slowly he waded into the river. The water was cold, and it stung at first, but soon his body adjusted to the temperature, and submerged himself to his waist. He began to wash the mud, sweat, and blood from his clothes, setting them aside over a hanging branch to dry out in the sun. The sun was warm, despite it being mid-morning... he knew it was going to be a hot day. 

With his clothes washed and drying,  Geralt finally waded deeper into the water until his feet didn’t touch the river bed. He swam over to the pool where the water was clear, and filling his lungs  with air, he dived down beneath the surface. He was under for a while, scouring the bottom of the pool in hopes someone may have dropped some coin in there prior to him finding it, but eventually he surfaced empty handed. He sighed, treading water as he got his breath back, then moved to the ledge. He sat down, water lapping at his chest, his shoulders and head above the surface, and he began to wash his hair out with the water. It certainly wouldn’t remove the weeks' worth of built-up oils and grease, but it would at least wash the dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids out from his afternoon face down in the mud. 

Once clean,  Geralt relaxed, closing his eyes. He brought his attention inwards to his breathing, to his pulse. He listened to the sound of the water lapping around him, the ripples of the river, the dripping of the water from his clothes, and the soft munching of Roach grazing on the river bank. It’d have been a relaxing, pleasant scene, if not for the repeated growls from his belly. He slowly drifted into meditation, the best way he knew to ignore discomfort, pain, or life in general. 

The  Witcher meditated for the next few hours, sitting in the water, feeling it warming up slowly with the heat of the sun. His clothes dried, he finally allowed himself to climb out of the water, and he dried himself off with a spare towel he brought with him. He slipped his clothes back on... they were far from pristine, but much better than before; they no longer stank of piss, so that was a start. He bent down, lacing up his boots, then he stood up, about to grab his armour, when a sudden dizziness overtook him. His hand reached out for Roach, but she was further away than he’d originally thought, and his vision went black. He stumbled and fell, hitting the floor with a thud, the air pushed from his lungs. 

He wasn’t out for long, waking moments later to see Roach’s head turned to face him, ears pricked in his direction in concern. She nickered to him, and he blinked hard, blurred vision focusing. Damn, he hadn’t fainted in a long time... been knocked out, yes, but simply fainting? That was a rare occurrence in a  Witchers ’ life... seemed his was weaker than he thought. He laid there for a while, staring with weary eyes at the branches above him, then very slowly sat up. He ran a shaking hand over his face, careful of his black eye, then even more slowly, he got to his hands and knees. It took a moment to find his strength, then he pushed himself to his feet. More carefully, now, he grasped his armour, and began to put it back on. His weapons strapped to his back, he eventually managed to get back into the saddle, and he spurred his horse on, their journey continuing. 

The day dragged, and despite his original predictions on how far he would be able to make in daylight hours, he was proven wrong.  His head hurt still, and he had to stop often just to rest, get his strength back.  As patient and trustful as ever, Roach was happy to stand around for breaks whilst her master rested. It was uneventful as journeys went, and the second and third day were very much the same.

They encountered very few people, the roads deserted since the war had ravaged the land.  Famine, disease and danger hid around every corner, and people avoided travel unless absolutely necessary.  Geralt passed through a few villages, but he did not stop in a single one, except to check the notice boards for work. It seemed that the battlegrounds had drawn the  necrophages away from civilisation with the promise of easy food.  Not one presented a single job for a  Witcher , much to his dismay.  Hunting had proven fruitless as well, so his hunger grew, weight starting to slowly drop off his muscular frame. 

Day four started out much the same,  a long, slow slog by horseback. Roach plodded steadily along the track,  the  Witcher hunched over on her back. He says slightly from time to time, exhausted, nearly toppling out of the saddle. They’d not crossed paths  with a single soul all morning,  strange considering they usually saw at least one person every couple of hours.  They passed a few abandoned camps, relatively recently used, and  Geralt stopped at each one, searching  them thoroughly for any scraps of food or goods to loot, but he came across little more than empty bottles, some twine, or  scraps of fabric. Anything good had already been looted. 

After the last camp,  Geralt returned to the saddle and they trudged on. The  Witcher sighed; he could remember a time when  Witchers were welcomed more often than not, when jobs were plenty... but now, he had been reduced to looting and scavenging. His hands clung to the front of the saddle, reins softly gripped between his fingers. He lost himself in memories of the better years... playing with  Ciri at  Kaer Morhen , the warmth of baths and food in  almost every inn he came across. He missed those days dearly...

A sudden grunt from Roach drew him back to the  damned present, however, and she tossed her head, nearly pulling  Geralt out of his saddle. He helped, squeezing her sides with his legs to hold on, and he looked up to see what appeared to be the sight of an attack. A cart, broken, ax3l snapped, lay  on its side, surrounded by  boxes and crates. Blood pooled on the floor, a dead horse laying on its side beside what looked like a human being

“ Woah , Roach...” He said in a low voice, pulling in the reins.  Geralt stopped his mare a short distance away, turning his head and surveying their surroundings. There were a few trees and shrubs around, large boulders and dips, perfect places for bandits to hide. He stopped breathing, listening closely for signs of life; Roach's steady breathing, the very faint breeze rustling leaves, and the sound of crows swarming in the distance... nothing nearby though. He could smell the blood and the horse, but nothing more.  It seemed they were alone. 

Slowly, landing almost silently, he dismounted. He gently stroked Roach on the neck then cautiously moved to the scene ahead of them. Tracks led from the main road to where the  cart had crashed. The horse was still in harness, but the straps that had tied it to the cart had been broken. 

Geralt glanced at the ground , spotting heavy footprints and footprints amongst the blood.  Arrows littered the scene, stuck into the wood of the cart. Most of the crates had been looted, but  Geralt couldn’t believe his luck when he came across a single loaf of stale bread, and a few bottles of clean water.  He didn’t take them yet though, still wary that it could be a trap.

He moved to the body of the  merchant who lay surrounded by congealed, dried blood. His stomach was bloated, his skin grey and lips blue. The blood had pooled to the bottom of the corpse. The smell was vile, but nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. Moving, he checked the  merchant's eyes to find they had been pecked clean from the sockets.  Judging by the maggots in the wounds, he had been dead for  a few days .  An arrow  protruded from the  merchant's chest, and a long wound stretched across his throat. 

“Murdered...”  Geralt muttered then turned his attention to the horse. There was an arrow sticking out of its rump .  Judging by the hoof tracks around the scene, the horse had survived the ambush, breaking free of the cart as it crashed, and had fled. It had returned though, staying by its owner until it, too, succumbed to its injuries. It was only slightly bloated, though  rigamortis had set in, but its eyes remained. Judging by the  way the blood had dried, it had been dead for no more than a day , though wolves had  already torn into the carcass, leaving nothing but scraps and moving on. 

Geralt glanced over to Roach, his brows  furrowing. Usually, horses weren’t an option on his menu, but his stomach was rolling with hunger, pain  slicing his abdomen with each grumble... and  this was the only option he had been presented in days now. He took his hunting knife in hand, and he began to slice into the flesh , salvaging what scraps of meat he could... what was edible at least. 

“Sorry, girl...” he muttered under his breath, whether he talking to Roach or to the dead mare he was butchering, he wasn’t sure. There wasn’t much meat, maybe enough for two small meals at most... the rest was full of gristle, or sinews. He  wrapped the meat up in parchment and twine, which had been deemed unworthy of looting, took the bottles of water and stale bread, and he carried his  scavenged scraps to his horse. He loaded them into his saddle bags, clambered onto Roach's back, then kicked her into a trot. He needed to find somewhere safe, off the road, to set up camp. 

An hour of travel brought  Geralt into some woodland, and he turned off the track. Finding a rock face, he found a shallow cave in the rock. Checking it out for monsters, wolves or bears, he was pleasantly surprised to find it empty. He led Roach inside, and  he offloaded his gear. He removed Roach’s saddle, taking time to slowly run a brush over her fur. He used his knife to pick stones and dirt from her hooves,  then left her to settle down to rest near a large puddle of rain water that had gathered in the cave.

Geralt laid out his bed roll, setting up camp, then headed out to gather wood and kindling for a fire.  It drained him of what little energy he had, but he finally built his fire, lighting it with a shot of  Igni , and slumped back onto his bed roll beside the females.  He let out an exhausted huff, closing his eyes briefly, then pulled his saddle bags closer. He grabbed a bottle and downed half of it, the cool water was refreshing,  filling his stomach for a short while at least. He unwrapped some horse meat, skewered it onto  a stick, then held it over the fire to cook. 

Despite the knowledge of where the meat had come from,  Geralt’s mouth was watering and the smell of cooking meat filled his lungs, and it wasn’t long before his stomach started to plead for food. It ached, and he couldn’t help but  wrap an arm around his middle as he watched the meat slowly cook. 

He wanted to eat it all, he wanted to just feast on all the meat he had found and gorge himself, but he knew that it would be unwise. He still had a fair distance to travel and there was no knowing if he would find any more food after this.  Instead , he rationed it out, enough for a small meal to last a few days . 

When his food was thoroughly cooked, he  worked it down then  lay down on his bed roll. His stomach satisfied for  a short while, he drifted off into a well - earned rest. His hand rested on his belly, which gurgled away happily, finally able to digest some real food.


End file.
